


first breath after coma

by cresswell



Category: Dead of Summer (TV)
Genre: Comfort, F/M, post 1x05, soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-06
Updated: 2016-08-06
Packaged: 2018-07-29 17:30:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7693204
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cresswell/pseuds/cresswell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Amy, just--” He lets out a frustrated sigh, running a hand over his head. “Just don’t, okay?”</p>
<p>“Why not? You’re obviously not fine.”</p>
<p>She’s right; he’s obviously very far from fine. But he doesn’t know how to tell her that he doesn’t deserve her concern. “I just--”</p>
<p>“I’m allowed to worry about you,” she interrupts, pushing up off the wall. “I’m allowed to care about you, Joel. What you’ve done-- what you <i>think</i> you’ve done-- doesn’t change that.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	first breath after coma

**Author's Note:**

> if you haven't seen episode 5, do not read this!!!!!!
> 
> also, warning for some vomiting. nothing descriptive but you should know it happens.
> 
> i chose the title because i was listening to that song while i wrote this and it made me emo

Cricket dies, and Joel gets bad again.

It makes sense. Trauma heightens mental illnesses, he knows, and he suspects that includes the whole Holyoke situation. He’d been the one to find her, and he can’t unsee the gnarled metal of the trap clamped around her head, the way her eyes had been wide and empty.

When he gets back to the cabins and Deb’s called the police and Cricket is zipped up in a body bag, he spends a good fifteen minutes kneeling in front of one of the toilets, heaving up nothing. He feels sick and dizzy and unreal, and he keeps his eyes shut because he’s afraid he’ll see Holyoke if he opens them.

This is his fault. Cricket is his fault.

If he’d just killed Amy when he’d had the chance--

This time when he heaves, bile rises up, and he coughs and splutters, gripping the toilet seat until his knuckles turn pink. What is he _thinking?_ He’s glad he didn’t kill Amy. He would never kill Amy. He’d never kill any of them, but especially not Amy, with her soft voice and wide eyes and kind smile.

He hears the door to the bathroom open and quickly sits back on his heels, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth. “Hello?”

“Hi.” The voice is feminine and quiet and he frowns, peeking his head out of the stall. Amy lingers a few feet away, still wearing her clothes from the overnight. They’re wrinkled and dirty, but she still looks almost otherworldly, like an angel that descended from heaven to save him from himself.

Frowning, Joel shakes his head. He must be more messed up than he thought.

“I just wanted to check on you,” Amy says. She’s twisting her fingers together either out of nerves or worry, and Joel’s eyes get caught on her hands and how delicate and small they are. “You’ve been in here for a while.”

Joel forces his gaze away, pulling himself to his feet. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“What?”

“Near me.” He swallows, suddenly feeling nauseous again. “You know what Holyoke told me.”

Amy laughs, the sound light and sweet. “Come on, Joel. You’re not going to kill me.”

“Well, I don’t _want_ to.”

She leans against the outside of the stall, barely reaching his chin. “See? I believe you.”

He rounds on her, trying to keep his voice from shaking. “I didn’t want to kill Cricket, either.”

She straightens, her forehead creasing in confusion. “You _didn’t_ kill Cricket.”

“Cricket’s dead because of me!” He exclaims. “She’s dead because I didn’t kill you!”

Amy’s quiet for a long moment, studying him with wide eyes, and he turns away from her again. She’s been exposed to his craziness for over a day now, and he’s shocked she hasn’t taken off running.

“She’s dead because of _me_ ,” she finally says, her voice low, and Joel turns to look at her incredulously. “If you want to think like that, then it’s my fault, okay? She died so I could live.” She reaches out and grips his wrist and he suddenly feels anchored and safe. “I don’t want you to blame yourself for this. You did _not_ do this.”

She’s so pretty up close, even prettier than usual, and Joel feels himself growing lightheaded again. He thinks at first it’s just because their close proximity is making him dizzy, but then he feels his stomach contract and he drops to his knees in front of the toilet, barely making it in time to throw up.

“Joel,” Amy says, her voice sad and heavy, and he can hear her drop to her knees behind him. She winds her arms around him, pressing her cheek against his back, and he grips her hands tightly in his own. 

He throws up again, embarrassed and humiliated, but Amy just holds tight to him. He can feel her heartbeat against his back, if he focuses really hard.

Amy splays her fingers across his stomach, like the more of him she touches, the better he’ll feel. “I’m sorry, Joel,” she says. Her voice comes out kind of muffled against his back, and he can feel the vibration of the words. “I’m really sorry.”

“You didn’t do anything.”

“I know. I’m just really sorry.”

He lets her hold him for a few more moments, trying to level his breathing and calm his erratic heart. He doesn’t deserve to be held. He doesn’t deserve anything. He’s nothing but a murderer, no matter what way he looks at it, and he definitely doesn’t deserve to have Amy’s arms wound around him tight--

“This is a bad idea,” he says, shrugging gently out of her grasp.

She looks hurt when he glances over his shoulder at her. “What? We’re not doing anything wrong.”

He gives her a look. “I don’t trust myself around you.”

“Because of Holyoke?” She asks, and he nods. What he doesn’t say is _yes, because of Holyoke, but also because I want to kiss you breathless but don’t deserve to._  “Well, _I_ trust you.”

“Bad choice.” He heaves himself to his feet again and Amy’s there immediately, a helping hand on his waist. “Can you grab me some water?”

“Of course.” She grabs one of the paper cups by the sinks and fills it with water, and he gets distracted by the way her hair tumbles down her back. Once it’s full, she passes it to him and he downs it, swishing it around in his mouth. “Are you feeling better?”

He shrugs. Truthfully, he doesn’t know. He doesn’t think he needs to throw up anymore, but he’s still anxious as hell that Holyoke will show up at any moment, or that another one of his friends will drop dead. “How is everyone out there?” He asks, jerking his head towards the door.

“About as well as can be expected.” Amy leans against the stall door again, burning holes into him with her eyes. “I’m more worried about you, though.”

“Amy, just--” He lets out a frustrated sigh, running a hand over his head. “Just don’t, okay?”

“Why not? You’re obviously not fine.”

She’s right; he’s obviously very far from fine. But he doesn’t know how to tell her that he doesn’t deserve her concern. “I just--”

“I’m allowed to worry about you,” she interrupts, pushing up off the wall. “I’m allowed to care about you, Joel. What you’ve done-- what you _think_ you’ve done-- doesn’t change that.”

She’s looking at him with such a soft, earnest expression that he’s afraid he’s going to grab her face and kiss her. “I want you to be okay,” she says softly, her hands on his shoulders for emphasis. “I want to be there for you and help you and keep you from getting lost in your head.”

“You don’t know what you’re saying,” he warns. “What you’re asking for.”

“Joel--” For the first time, she sounds mildly frustrated with him. “Do I really need to spell it out for you?”

He’s about to ask her what she means, because he’s pretty sure he’d been following the conversation fairly decently, but then she’s standing up on her tiptoes and pressing her lips to his and he just thinks _oh. Oh._

Once his brain catches up to his lips, he presses her back against the stall door, gripping her hips in his hands. She feels so small against him, so fragile, but he knows that she’s not-- that she’s tough and brave and beautiful and wonderful. She kisses like she’s running out of time, strong and sure, no take-backs. He thinks surely he’s died. He’s died and gone to heaven, somehow, because Amy is kissing him and kissing him and kissing him, her hands winding around his neck.

He wants to stay here, in this grimy camp bathroom with Amy and her lips and her hands. He never wants to leave and have to face Deb or Holyoke or anyone again. As long as he’s got Amy, he’s good.

She breaks apart from him with a smile on her face, looking like she just discovered the key to happiness and isn’t letting go of it any time soon. “I hope that was okay.”

“It was,” Joel says, his voice low and thick. “Of course it was. God, Amy.” He laughs breathlessly, watching as she does the same. “It was more than okay.”

“Good.” She moves her hair over one shoulder and looks up at him through her eyelashes and-- oh my god, is she _flirting_ with him? “Because I’d really like to do it again sometime.”

Joel raises an eyebrow, creeping back into her space again. “I think I’ve got some time right now.”

She has to drop her head back against the stall door to look up at him, the corners of her eyes crinkling. “What a coincidence, so do I.”

He’s laughing when she pulls him back in, and for the first time in years, he is not thinking about Holyoke one bit.


End file.
